


Rest Your Weary Spirit

by augmenti



Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, OT3, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augmenti/pseuds/augmenti
Summary: Even among kings, there is only one person Hephaistion would trust to love Alexander as much as he does.
Relationships: Alexander the Great/Bagoas/Hephaistion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Rest Your Weary Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gentlezombie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/gifts).

> Hello and happy yuletide, I really hope you have a great holiday!

The Indian jungle was wild and green, but beautiful. Lotus’ in the river were grand and beautiful. The rains made their petals open wide and pink. The banks swelled with greenery. The people wore beautiful colors and light silks to withstand the humidity and the rain. He was told, more than once, that the land was even more impressive when the rains stopped. 

Hephaistion was not so certain they ever would. 

King Poros himself was glorious, even in defeat. 

He was taller than Hephaistion, with a great, curled beard and a jeweled turban that made his height even greater. Sat at the place of honor beside Alexander, he looked much more fitting a king amongst the golden and red Indian finery. One would hardly be able to tell he’d been wounded not long before. He was so gracious, so handsome, it was no wonder he felt that hateful burn of jealousy stirring in his gut. 

The banquet held in his honor was vast, with games, food and dancing. At the feast, Hephaistion sat on a cushioned seat not too far from Alexander with the other Generals, Ptolomy beside him. From there, he could hear Alexander engaged in conversation, head tipped to the side, golden-red curls reflecting the light of the candlelight, as he drank in any and every description King Poros gave him of the land beyond the Indus that was yet undiscovered. 

Hephaistion was lost in thought, considering the weight of two cities worth of logistics on each bank, of how he would erect the statue for Bucephalus, when a hush fell over the feasting hall and Bagoas stepped into the center of the dancing stage. Persian music was different from Indian music. In the heart of the beat, when Bagoas danced for them, all lythe, twisting forms and burning intent, Hephaistion’s breath caught.

It was a new thing, their slow growing respect for one another. Jealousy had curled around his ribcage like a great scaled snake for so long whenever he looked at the Persian, jealousy giving way to that much more horrid emotion that caused him to react before he ever thought in every occasion, that had given way to the rage that had caused Alexander to turn to him, clear eyes flashing, and beseech him to get along, to be better. Hephaistion was not one for self pity. He knew he had Alexander’s love even when they were parted, or when they argued. He knew Alexander listened to him still, with his head tipped to the side, looking his way. He would not be the Alexander he knew and loved if he did not stop to listen to everyone or consider their views. But to have those eyes turn to him for the first time in anger -- he could not bear to lose his control again.

If Bagoas could overcome that distrust of him, if he could respect who he and Alexander were to one another, could Hephaistion not be the same? He still remembered the look in his eye when he came to him that miserable day of Bucephalus’ death, dripping and distressed, to find him, then Hephaistion had to try and do the same.

It may have been the first time he let himself be entranced by the lithe way he moved with the music, twisting as though for a lover, eyes only for Alexander with a gaze that he related to with all of his heart. The great longing he felt for him daily even when they were parted, brought to life in a song. 

Hephaistion broke his gaze away, looking down at his table with the spiced Indian dishes and local wine. He felt a hunger, but not for food. When he glanced towards Ptolomy, the man was sitting back on his cushion, one arm on his knee, watching the proceedings with the sort of keen eye they had taken to calling his gaze of record. 

“What is it?” He asked, just to break the spell that shook him from the inside. 

Ptolomy smiled, nodding his head towards the dias where Bagoas was accepting a pair of ruby red earrings from King Poros’. Alexander’s smile was still lingering after Bagoas had slipped into the background as only he could. 

“I think this may be the first ruler who Alexander respects as much as himself.” 

Hephaistion laughed, shaking his head. “He respects everyone who earns it.” 

But he may have been the first ruler since Alexander himself who offered Bagoas something with his own hands without wanting something in return. 

The thought of him lingered at the forefront of his mind, distracting and pressing. Weak to the whim, Hephaistion downed his bowl of wine in one long swallow and got to his feet. He slipped past the line of generals, clasping Ptolomy’s shoulder as he passed him by. 

He followed Bagoas’ footsteps out of the room, lingering outside the door to the room he had been given as his own, though he never used it with his place at Alexander’s side. He only kept his personal items in there, but the palette of a bed was never used. There had been a time, long ago, where they’d both mistrusted each other. Bagoas had thought he’d used him to gain power, and he in return, had thought he would use his position to poison Alexander or to change him. 

There was a time when Hephaistion had been infamous for his anger. It was like the fall of pebbles that inevitably caused an avalanche. It crushed livestock and houses, diverted rivers, and destroyed families. His mother used to say that he’d been born howling back at a violent storm, and tempering that knee-jerk reaction to fury was a slow process. If Alexander could practice moderation in all things save war, then he could do this, too. 

He tapped on the frame of the small room, entering after a pause. He could practically feel Bagoas frozen in place on the other side of the wall. Hephaestion pushed the door open, propping it open with his body. 

If he was surprised, his only reaction was the blinking of kohl-lined eyes. Like this, clad half in the soft garb he wore for feasts and grand occasions, his hair still long over his shoulder, braids only half undone, he looked far away from the wet, miserable thing that had come for him so desperately when Bucephalus’ passed. 

Alexander did not take loss so well. He may well believe himself to be invincible, but Hephaistion knew better. Bagoas too, knew better. They both knew the scars that riddled his body, the wear that a lifetime of war and conquest had done. He could count them and their origins, save the new ones from their most recent battle. 

“What is it?” Bagoas asked, not unkindly. Hephaistion’s invasion of his one space of solitude felt like a strain on the threads of their slowly growing bond. “Did something happen?” 

Hephaistion shook his head, hushed to silence by the boldness of following this whimsical thought. But nothing could be gained without reaching for it. He raised a hand, slow as though Bagoas was but a wary colt. Like he was once again forging the river Hydaspes, he moved through the resistant air until he reached the far shore that was the gap between them. Under his fingers, Bagoas’ hair was soft and thick, dark brown tresses that were weighed down with golden bands. He tucked a wayward strand behind his ear. When his thumb brushed his cheekbone they both froze. Bagoas’ eyes were large anyway, but in the dim light they were even larger. 

He often wondered if he was the only one who suffered from Alexander’s lack of attention. When he did feel the flames of desire, he was often still content to just be touched, and loved. Hephaestion had long given up attempting to parse how they felt for one another down to simply _erestes_ and _eremenos_, after all, who could ever say Achilles and Patrocles were ever anything but bonded by the soul. There were times when Alexander wished only to touch, and give pleasure, and had to wish to receive it in return, and there were times when he wanted nothing more than to have Hephaistion crush him down to the bed like when they were boys, when he wanted to fight, and be conquered. 

But there was very little time, and too much grief, and too much to do. Alexander was caught up in King Poros’ knowledge and kingship, and soon those reigns would be passed to Hephaistion; to settle the region and be sure that not only would they remember Alexander here long after they had left, but also that King Poros was the good, gracious king that Alexander had been so enamored with during the battle. 

He wanted to say something to bridge the wide chasm between them. They were both the ones who Alexander could turn to when he suffered. He was sure Bagoas knew this. He knew Bagoas watched Roxane closely, that he kept tabs on the comings and goings of anyone who came close to the king. When things were out of order, he kept an eye over all the proceedings. This young man who was so much more than just a Persian servant, who Hephaistion had so long intentionally ignored, if only to ease his own jealous heart. 

After too long, he withdrew his hand, letting it drop between them. The silence was heavy, more oppressive than the Indian rains. 

“Thank you, Bagoas.” He said, finally. 

He couldn’t fill the gap with words or consequence. He didn’t entirely know what this emotion was that he felt, aside from it being some new, convoluted thing. It scraped at him like a raw nerve. 

Bagoas watched him for a moment longer, then dipped his head slightly. He reached his hand with that same natural fluidity. His hands were soft when his fingers curled around and squeezed his palm. 

The touch lasted two, three moments, then Bagoas dropped his hand and turned around abruptly. “Would you help me?” 

Hephaistion drew his fingers through his long hair, letting out the breath he’d been holding. His heart hammered in his chest as he took a step in. The door shut behind him, and they were enveloped in the dim candlelight. He thought of Bagoas tending to Alexander with this sort of gentleness (though he thought perhaps Alexander would be too impatient for it), that he himself had never once treated someone so gently. He took the rings out one by one, until his hair was long and freefalling over his back. 

He combed it with his fingers, drawing it up in one hand and placing a slow kiss on the back of his neck. Bagoas’ breath hitched. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, but he leaned into the touch. Hephaistion let his other hand wander over his clothed hip, kissing higher, where the jaw and ear met. 

The only sounds in the room were man-made; their stilted breaths and the parting of his slow lips from skin. He kissed his cheek next, as Bagoas slowly turned in his arms. When he slid to kiss the cheek again, Bagoas struck lightning quick, one hand grasped his chin, the other cupping the wandering hand that had covered his chest. He joined their lips softly. He leaned against it, until the light touch turned to a firm nip of teeth. 

The touch was gentle still, yet went straight to his groin. Hephaistion clutched him tighter, kissed him harder, just once, before peeling himself back and away. 

Bagoas turned to watch him back away to the door. His gaze was hidden by shadow, the dim candlelight casting the planes of his cheekbones in sharp relief. He stood with his back straight, hair still pulled over his shoulder, watching him with wise eyes. They were the sort of eyes Hephaistion would have searched out, when appointing officers to cities and provinces to keep the order in Alexander’s name. 

Just before he backed out of the room, he broke the stalemate of silence. 

“Thank you, Hephaistion.” 

Hephaistion paused on the threshold, heart pounding as though he were in the thick of battle. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped in the middle, feeling as though he had toed past the forbidden barrier he had never felt a need to cross before. Who did he need, after all, aside from Alexander himself? He inclined his head and finally fled.

He went until his feet carried him to the courtyard beyond the feasting hall. There he paced as he thought. If anger was a storm inside him, then he wondered at recklessness. Was it only a form of anger, or simply loneliness come to call? Bagoas had only ever been united over devotion to one man, and it had at the very least kept the both of them from finding ways to murder one another in a fit of jealousy. Now that he had crossed that bridge it felt as though he himself were forging into the unknown, on a _pathos_ of his own. 

It was but a candle to the passionate burning wheel that drove Alexander forward into conquest towards the end of the world, but for someone who had only ever truly felt truly passionate for, and devoted to Alexander, it was something new. 

A cacophony of joyful laughter from inside the hall broke through his thoughts, and finally he shook himself out of them, turning towards the light and towards the sun that was Alexander. He could leave it for another day. There was a joy in seeing Alexander happy and elated, drunk more from good fortune and a new, respected companion than the wine. 

—

When next he saw Alexander, it was after the news that the army had stopped the march. And with it, Alexander’s dreams. Hephaistion could only imagine the mood Alexander must have been in and he felt, not for the first time, that he was glad that Bagoas had been at his side. 

Hephaistion may have been left to the settling of the province, but he had been far from idle. Not only in the building of the two cities, but there were also the unsettled tribes to settle and appointments of officers to draw up. Poros was a fine man, but there had to be a broad spectrum of open-minded officers that could integrate effectively. It was the best way for Alexander’s dream to be reality, for the empire to last beyond them. 

When the army arrived, he could hardly take his eyes off the way Alexander carried himself. It was not from a flesh wound, where he would hold himself straighter and make himself seem harder so that anyone who looked upon him would believe he was unaffected by such things. No, bitterness showed in the tightly wound muscles in the corner of his jaw, in the furrow of his brow. He was ever gracious to their hosts, but when he left the army to join Hephaistion, he left them without looking back. 

It made him think of when they were young, when Alexander and he would run after Aristotle’s teachings of barbarism. They would run to the woods, their shelter, and debate even as they held each other close. If Aristotle only knew how wrong he was, that the different races of man were all the same and even grander than imagination could conceive. Hephaistion had met many good men, many better men than he ever thought possible. Even here, so close to the end of the world, they had met the wisest of philosophers and the greatest of kings. 

Only when they were just the two of them and all eyes had been shooed away, did Alexander sit on the edge of Hephaistion’s bed and slump over his own knees. He let him undo the grand armor Bagoas had pressed upon him to wear. He let him kiss away the worry lines creasing his brow. 

“We were so close,” Alexander said after a sigh. 

“We can come back,” he said. It brought a quirk of a brief, bitter smile to Alexander’s lips. It was gone before he could blink. 

Hephaistion straddled him, cupping his head in his hands. He felt the lithe form shift under his body. He could feel the ache of his disappointment in his own heart. He knew he only felt a fraction of the bitterness Alexander felt. It was not the first time he wished he had the same pathos to see the ends of the world, to unite it. To go back and north, to conquer the lands beyond Macedon. To return even a little was to lose the momentum that Alexander had carried with him all this while. 

He could see the blow to his heart in the way his shoulders slumped. The army had been with them all this while. Macedon’s had not been willing to come so close. Hephaistion closed his eyes to the disappointment. It tasted bitter. So many veterans had been with the army since Phillip’s reign. The very core of the army. 

“There are many good soldiers from every nation,” Hephaistion said. He grasped him by the shoulders and pressed him down upon the bed. He placed a kiss on the fast moving pulsepoint at his throat. 

“Baktrians.” He kissed his collarbone. “Sogdians.”

A kiss against the side of his pectoral, above a scar, right where he knew he had a favorite spot. He felt Alexander’s breath hitch. “Indians,” he continued, sliding down, hands pulling him free of the fabric of his garb as he did so. 

“Persians.” He dropped to his knees, hands cupping the backs of his thighs. His thumbs dug circles into the sore muscles. He pressed a kiss to the abdomen, where his pelvis bone jutted. 

“Egyptians.” He nuzzled his groin. Alexander caught his hair in one fist, holding himself by the elbow so he could watch him. Hephaistion took in the blown pupils, the look of intensity that had been missing when he first arrived. 

When he took him into his mouth, he was already half aroused. It brought a thrill up his spine. He sucked him down, running his tongue up the base of his spine. He grazed the tip with his teeth when he drew back. Alexander had flopped back along the bed, pulling his hair. He was quiet, breath hitched as he controlled his breathing as he always did. So careful to maintain moderation even in this. 

He took up the dialogue that Hephaistion had begun. His breath was hardly a whisper. “We’ll come back with an army of all races -- with young Greeks, eager to see the ends of the world.” 

Hephaistion swallowed him down again, and his breath hitched. “Gods, Hephaistion,” he shuddered. “Come with me.” 

Withdrawing slowly, Hephaistion kept a tactile grip on Alexander’s shin, unwilling to let him go for a moment. Knowing how much he needed the touch. He reached for, and found, the oil that he kept among his things and drew himself back up over him. Knees bracketing Alexander and settling his weight temporarily on his legs, he coated his fingers.

Alexander wriggled up onto his elbows in a way that shot fire down his spine. Hephaistion grasped him by it, flipping him face down into the bed. Alexander did not wrestle this day. 

Kneeling above him, he considered his divine lover, his weary soul. With his free hand he cupped Alexander’s cheek, kissing him in the same soft spot behind his ear and jaw that he had kissed Bagoas not too long ago. Alexander smelled sweet where Bagoas had smelled of spices. Alexander’s hair was soft and light, where Bagoas’ had been silk and thick. 

Hephaistion breached him with his fingers first, working him gently and slowly, with as much tenderness as he could muster. If their old teachers saw them now they would have wept. If the army knew that such tenderness was possible, perhaps they would not want to go home to their wives. They had long past the set societal roles, and yet. Alexander was the best of all Macedonians, and yet they would ridicule them both. 

Alexander was warm and tight around his fingers, and he arched his back in surprise when Hephaistion slowly crossed his fingers inside. He hissed out a breath. “Now,” he demanded. Their hearts were pounding in unison. 

“If you wish it,” Hephaistion breathed against the back of his neck. 

“Don’t-- tease.” Alexander pressed back into him when he withdrew his fingers. When he pressed inside of him, they both gasped together. Their bodies moved in tandem, rocking as he rolled his hips in such a slow, gentle rhythm that it almost felt painful to keep up. But slow is what he needed, steady and stable and Hephaistion more than anything wanted to give that to him.

They rock together until Hephaistion twisted just enough and hits his prostate, causing Alexander’s quiet gasps to slip into a soft cry of joy. He hit it just right, a little too rough as he slipped from eagerness, and when their bodies went slick with sweat and Hephaistion’s silk shirt stuck to his skin, he felt Alexander give first, coming over the sheets and his knees. Hephaistion was only ever able to feel the way Alexander’s body shuddered around him before he, too, came. Alexander arched into it, body falling back against his as he did, taking all he could give. 

Hephaistion whited out with their arms twined together.

He woke some time later to Alexander wiping them both down with a warm cloth. He was sitting beside him, half on, half off, one leg stretched out and leaning over him on his elbow. His eyes were clear as they looked down upon him, half cupping his head in a hand.

“Bagoas.” Hephaistion felt a thrill up his spine. He glanced away from Alexander’s face and down, and jerked up when he realized it was not Alexander wiping him down, but Bagoas. The younger man’s face was carefully blank. It was hard to know what he thought, but Hephaistion hoped that Alexander had not called him in for this.

“Yes, my king?” Bagoas kept his eyes down on his task, efficient and gentle as though he were running a cloth down the thigh of a lover. 

“Don’t fret, Hephaistion,” the hand cradling his hand tugged very lightly on his locks. “Bagoas let himself in.” 

“I thought you would be too tired, Al’skander.” He spoke with his gaze facing the ground. The lilt of his accent pronouncing Alexander so carefully brought a cheerful swoop to Hephaistian’s gut. He blinked in surprise. 

Alexander reached for him, and he stopped his ministrations, draping the cloth in a bowl of steaming water before he let himself get pulled closer. Hephaistion lifted himself up onto his elbows with some effort, feeling his heart constrict. Alexander had a faraway look in his eyes. 

“Where would I be without you both?” He asked, running a hand through Hephaistion’s curls at the same time as he ran his hand up Bagoas’ arm. They both shuddered at the same time, leaning towards him like plants towards the sun. 

“Still my king,” Bagoas answered instantly. 

Hephaistion took longer to answer, cupping his hand along the pulsepoint at Alexander’s wrist. “Still my Achilles,” he finally said. 

There was a hush in the air as Alexander considered both of them. He squeezed them, one in each hand. He’d tipped his head to the side as he always did when he was taking in answers. His smile was slow to come, but once it finally grew it was worth every battle, every struggle. 

That he could smile like that still, after being turned from his greatest of longing by those he loved most. After being spurned and betrayed. Hephaistion could only wonder and hope, with all of himself, that the Gods would let them be together in every adventure. With all of him, every fibre, if Alexander could still smile like that, he wanted to see his face when they reached the end of the world. 

He glanced towards Bagoas, who drank in Alexander’s expression, whose eyes were dark yet reflected the light of the room, of Alexander, right back at him. Hephaistion reached with his free hand and cupped the nape of his neck in a gentle grasp. Bagoas’ flicked his gaze towards him, leaning slightly into it. 

Had this been just months ago, before India, they would have still been in silent stalemate. Now, Hephaistion could feel a loosening in the tightly wound coils of his heart. He had always known that Alexander had enough love to go around, but he himself had felt he only ever had room for one person. The chasm was not so large now, the gap between the three bridged. 

Hephaistion settled back on the bed, still in disarray, watching Bagoas wipe Alexander’s bare form down. There was a soft sort of peace that razed the walls that jealousy had erected in his heart from long ago, and from the rubble a thought bloomed. Perhaps this was not some perfect thing. Perhaps this was only a fleeting fancy of Alexander’s, to invite Bagoas to join them. 

Perhaps this was the cost to give, to hear him laugh once more. If it tasted a little of diplomacy, well. Hephaistion had developed a wonderful palette for such a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted to grow the relationship between Hephaistion and Bagoas more in the lines of canon without truly going off script, but during my re-read I really got attracted to exploring how Bagoas and Hephaistion might help Alexander after the mutiny of the Greeks. To be fair, I just wanted to write something gentle from Hephaistion's POV as an excuse to explore him, even if it just ended up a PWP anyway! 
> 
> I hope you like it, happy yuletide once again ♥


End file.
